


Last Train Runnin'

by RaeWhit



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeWhit/pseuds/RaeWhit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After death, Snape finds himself in a world where Harry, not Lily, is the first magical person he meets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Train Runnin'

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ community snape_after_dh. Recorded for Fiction Alley's Spellcast [October 2008](http://spellcast.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=09)
> 
> As always, thanks to the great and powerful Oz behind the curtains--my friend and fellow Snarry author, jadzialove.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe is the sole property of J.K. Rowling and her book and film companies. I make no money from writing fanfiction.

_ **Last Train Runnin'** _

 

_"That's the way things come clear. All of a sudden. And then you realize how obvious they've been all along."_

~Madeleine L'Engle~~This story is dedicated to her memory.

 

Severus Snape came slowly to consciousness, refusing to open his eyes yet, lulled by the gentle swaying of the back and forth motion.

He'd had a horrible dream. Visions of it seemed scarred on his retinas—those familiar red, piercing eyes, the hovering of the snake cage as it encompassed him, the reedy voice rasping, "I regret it," the strike of the fangs into the soft flesh of his neck, then his own powerlessness as he felt the icy, poisonous venom seeping through his veins. A voice oddly like his own, whispering, "Look…at…me…."

Then, strangely, a body suspended just above him, its green eyes peering down at him.

Snape shuddered and clenched his eyes shut even tighter. He shivered again, this time with cold, and attempted to wrap his arms around himself as he curled into a fetal position. It was uncomfortably hard, whatever it was that he was lying on.

He focused now on the motion and a familiar clickity-clack that beat a rhythm in time with it. Where _am_ I, he wondered, still trying to decide why he felt like he'd been here before. He was freezing, and this more than anything prompted him to finally open one cautious eye, then the other.

He was facing a long bench, and what seemed to be a neat stack of clothing arranged exactly in the middle of it. Of course, he thought, it's a train. And for some reason, this didn't seem odd at all.

Stretching out his legs, then his arms, he slowly maneuvered himself to a sitting position, then gazed about himself in wonder. Not just a train, but the Hogwarts Express; he'd been on it enough times to recognize the compartment, the padded benches, the gilded ironwork frame of the window. The door to the compartment stood open to the passageway that spanned the length of the car, and suddenly Snape was acutely aware that he was stark naked, and could be discovered at any time, so….

Frowning, he leant across and snagged the bundle of clothing. Obviously they'd been left here for him: black trousers, black-buttoned shirt, black socks, shoes and boots, all curiously in his own size. It seemed perfectly reasonable that this would be the case, although a part of his mind was befuddled by why the items would be meant for him and, more bizarrely, why this would seem reasonable to him.

As he dressed himself, he was faced with another and more disturbing fact: he wasn't hastily pulling the clothes on over a sixth or seventh year body. No, it was his own scar-ridden, lanky form, the very one he'd critically appraised just that morning in the mirror when he'd dressed in his chambers at Hogwarts. He craned his neck to look out of the window as his fingers methodically did up the buttons of his shirt. There was nothing to see; the window was shrouded in mist and the countryside through which the train streaked was entirely indiscernible.

He sat immobile for a moment, once he was finished, filled with a mixture of overwhelming curiosity and dread. He thought he knew, but just for an instant, he staved off verifying the uncomfortable certainty. What had drifted across his mind as he'd awakened…he suspected it hadn't just been a dream, but for now he chose to ignore it.

Standing to his feet, he held onto the overhead rack as he adjusted to the rocking of the car on the tracks. He took a step towards the window, then pressed his nose against the glass, but could still not see anything at all. Doing an about-face, he paced to the doorway of the compartment, then carefully stuck his head out. Glancing from left to right, he established that it was empty, so he stepped out into the passageway, took a deep breath, then strode from one end of the car to the other, grimly noting that all the other compartments were empty. As he returned to his own, a heavy weight seemed to settle in his chest.

As he sank back onto the bench, his mind gave in to the inevitable. He hadn't had a dream at all…it'd been real, all of it. He, Severus Snape, was dead. He let out a loud and appreciative bark of a laugh, not entirely devoid of humor. Contrary to what those who'd known him might've thought, he had a fine sense of the ludicrous and the ironic.

After a wretched childhood, after an agonizing adolescence, after a lonely and protracted adulthood, where he'd been manipulated, tortured and much maligned (sometimes rightfully so), after he'd made the ultimate sacrifice, one that no one would ever understand or celebrate, here he was: Severus Snape, aged thirty-seven, stuck, stranded, abandoned on a ghost of the Hogwarts Express, bound to never reach a destination. He was safe now, but alone, hurtling off into perpetuity.

Snape laughed again.

***

His mirth didn't last long, though, as the full impact of his circumstances finally made its sober impression. He was stuck on the Express, going only god knew where, with no idea of when to get off, or even if there would be an opportunity to get off at all.

He was suddenly struck with a desperate desire: he _had to know_ how it had ended. Had Potter gathered his memories while they hung there? Had he figured out what to do with them? And more importantly, what had he done once he'd seen them all?

As for himself, he'd long been ready for the end to come. He rather thought that he'd lasted far longer than he should've. But once he'd known that Potter et al had escaped, unscathed, from Gringotts, it was only a matter of packaging those memories he'd sifted through months before, tacking on the most recent one—the conversation with Albus' portrait, when he'd been urgently prompted to get himself and the sword to the Forest of Dean. Those carefully selected fragments of his existence had been cordoned off, quarantined in his psyche, waiting for the precise moment for them to be released to the intended party.

Snape slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. Well, there was no way to know now, especially as it appeared, at least for the moment, that he'd been relegated to an afterlife with no companions. It was fitting, he supposed, that he'd remain in the dark about the events that followed his death. Hadn't it always been this way? Playing his part, seldom given enough information to know what part he was actually playing, how he fit into the grander scheme of things. He felt a vague sense of disappointment, as if he'd been cheated in the one place where he'd thought he'd finally _know it_ all…. He'd anticipated answers, yes, because the one man who could give them, he admitted to himself sourly, was the first person he'd expected to greet him on the other side. Well, Albus always had his own timetable for things, so why should Snape expect anything different, even in the afterlife? With a sigh, Snape folded his arms across his chest and fell into restful sleep.

***

"Anything off the cart, dear?"

Snape's eyes snapped open as he sat bolt upright. There was someone else on the train! He jumped to his feet and in one stride was to the door, just as the cart slid into place, blocking the entrance to the compartment. He ignored it for a moment as he stuck his head out, looking up and down the narrow passageway. The cart seemed to have been self-propelled, as there was no one in sight. He'd heard the voice clearly, though. He realized that he'd heard it often enough in his seven school years, that he might've imagined it. But still, here it was, the sweets trolley….

When his eyes drifted down, however, there were no Pumpkin Pasties, no Licorice Wands, not a Chocolate Frog in sight, nary a Cauldron Cake, not one package of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. His eyes narrowed as he took in the single item placed squarely in the middle of the top shelf.

It was a Pensieve, one with which he was painfully familiar. The stone basin had a wide, flaring brim, the edge of it decorated with indecipherable runic symbols. How often, in the past six months, had he stared at it, broodingly considering it from his seat behind the headmaster's desk, as if the force of his compelling stare could force it to give up secrets, provide him with answers, help him make decisions he'd felt so at a loss to decide? Why had the old man insisted on holding so much back? Why had he trusted Potter and not himself? He knew the answer, intellectually, but still it galled: he'd been loyal to a fault, but his reward had been to be kept in the dark to the very end. Dumbledore had feared Snape's proximity to the Dark Lord, and with good reason, he reluctantly admitted. But surely Potter should've been just as much of a risk…?

He reached down and traced around the edge of it, and as he did, the contents of the Pensieve began to swirl, its murky liquid flashing pearl-silver, reflecting back Snape's face as he warily watched. He gave the cart a tentative nudge with his thigh, but it wouldn't budge. He tried with his hands then, but the cart seemed fixed in place where it stood, trapping him in the small compartment.

Snape smiled wryly, and muttered his first words in the afterlife, "Bloody hell, of course it won't move. Not until I've done what Albus _wants me to do_."

He felt a thrill of anticipation as he lifted the Pensieve from the cart and carried it into the compartment. He leant down and placed it carefully on the floor between the benches, then after a moment's hesitation, he knelt beside it and sat back on his heels. Closing his eyes, Snape took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. This was it, then. He suspected there would be answers within; he fervently hoped that he'd have at least a glimpse of how it had ended, after he'd been forced to depart somewhat prematurely, without knowing….

Still with his eyes shut, he bent in and gave himself over to the freefall of the Pensieve.

***

There was no gradual orientation to the scene unfolding before his eyes, no merciful shifting of mists and shadow to allow him to adjust. He found himself in a narrow hallway, his ears accosted by the sounds of argument. At the end of the hallway stood a middle-aged woman who seemed vaguely familiar…Petunia…what was her last name now? Hands on her hips, lips pursed, she watched the drama in which Snape found himself in the very middle.

"Go on! Go on, I say! Not another word, and not a sound, do you hear me?!" A red-faced, rotund man was pushing a small child down the corridor, kicking him along with his foot, the child with his hands over his head as he warded off the man's fists. Almost to the kitchen, the boy was snagged by his collar, held in place as the sweating adult fumbled with the fastenings to a door beneath the stairs. Snape suddenly understood that this was the child's memory, as he found himself thrust inside the dark opening along with the boy. The door slammed, shaking the stairs above it, and then there was the sound of a heavy bolt being slid into place. One well-placed pounding on the door, then there was the thump of the man's footsteps as he retreated, still muttering loudly under his breath as he went.

Snape heard the child gasping, whimpering as he tried to catch his breath, then suddenly, light filled the small space, as the boy pulled the chain to a single light bulb hanging from the low, slanted ceiling of the enclosure. It was Snape's turn to gasp, as he stared into the tear-streaked face of a very young Harry Potter. For a moment, Snape was certain the boy could see him, but then relaxed as the child sank down onto a pile of blankets arranged in a corner.

Snape studied the child, who couldn't be more than six, if that. He was dirty and disheveled, his clothes garishly too large, his knees and wrists jutting out from limbs that were painfully thin. He watched as Potter ferreted around beneath the blankets with a hand, to pull out a cloth toy of some sort. It resembled a bear, an eye and an arm missing, but it was clearly a treasure to the child.

Hugging it to his chest, the boy scooted back on the makeshift bed, his free hand scrubbing at his eyes as he began to rock himself slightly, forward then backward.

"Shhh, it's all right, Mr. Buffins, it's all right, don't cry, he's gone," Potter reassured the small toy.

Although Snape couldn't feel it, he realized the cubbyhole must be sweltering. The boy had already started to sweat, rivulets of it plastering his unruly hair to his forehead, bringing two bright red spots of color to his cheeks. As he soothed himself, he slipped down the wall to lie on his side, knees drawn up to his chest, crooning words of comfort to his furry companion.

Snape watched, stunned, shocked at the boy's ready acceptance of such treatment.

When the child was finally motionless and quiet, the mist of the Pensieve swept Snape away.

He was standing in a play park, he realized with a start, facing the boy who was sitting on a swing, dragging his feet in the dirt, twisting the chain so he twirled in a circle. Potter was older now, at least nine or ten. Still apparently undernourished, still wearing clothes that could contain two of him. When the boy's head came up suddenly, Snape turned in the direction where he was looking.

Two boys had climbed the fence, ignoring the gate on the other side of the play park. They seemed to be a bit older than Potter, although Snape wondered if the boy's failure to thrive made him look even younger. They sauntered their way in Potter's direction, already taunting him as they came.

"Oooo, Piers, lookie, it's the little freak, all by himself," one of the boys called out in a singsong voice. He was stout and doughy, easily twice Potter's weight.

Potter had let the swing untwist, and sat with his feet flush to the ground, his hands white-knuckled on the chains. "I'd rather have no friends, than that pig-faced one you've got there," he muttered as he lifted a finger in the direction of the second of the two boys.

The fat boy let out a grunt, then lifted his foot to slam Potter forcefully in the chest, knocking him backward off the swing. He was on top of his victim in an instant, viciously pummeling him in the face with his fist. Standing to his feet, gasping from his exertion, he wiped his bloodied hand on his jeans.

"Get up, Potter. Go home. And don't you dare say a word to Mum. If you do, I'll make sure you spend the whole weekend in that little hidey-hole of yours," he menaced, scowling while his friend shrieked with laughter.

Potter rolled to his stomach, then pushed himself up to his knees, finally standing, the blood dripping from his nose. "Someday, Dudley, someday…" he mumbled, as he cut a wide berth around the two sniggering boys.

"Someday what?" Dudley sneered. "Did'ja know, Piers, his parents were drunks? Got themselves killed in a car crash. Good for nothings, just like you, Potter."

Turning back, Potter stood rooted to the ground, his hands in fists at his sides. "Shut it about my parents!" He took a step forward, but when Dudley bent to pick up a rock, he seemed to think better of it. "Someday you'll be sorry," he called, as he made a beeline for the fence.

Snape hurried to keep up with the boy. Once over the fence, Potter gave the play park a look over his shoulder. "They weren't drunks, they weren't!" he mumbled to himself. "I don't know what they were, but they weren't drunks." Snape heard the quaver in his voice, and spied the single tear that threatened to spill over, but Potter swiped it away angrily as he headed across the field. Then the scene dissolved around them.

When Snape opened his eyes again, he knew immediately where they were. Ollivander's shop had the most distinctive smell about it: old parchment, dust, warm lacquer. He remembered his first time in the shop as if it were yesterday. He was startled from his musings by the sound of the old man's voice.

"I wonder…_yes_, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Snape watched as the boy flicked the wand, and a shower of red and gold sparks lit up the room, causing Hagrid to whoop loudly and Ollivander to cry out with glee. The expression on the boy's face was one of pure wonder and joy. Snape could identify with the experience, and he slightly smiled in spite of himself. But Ollivander was speaking again, and the words caused the smile to become a grim line of realization.

"It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar." As the child paled visibly, the old man added, "The wand chooses the wizard, remember….. I think we must expect great things of you, Mr. Potter. After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Snape saw the boy shiver, then the scene melted once again.

There was no time to adjust. The drama before him was unfolding horribly.

Quirrell and Potter were struggling together on the ground, the man almost pinning Potter beneath him. But then the boy reached around and grabbed a hold of the Defense teacher's face, causing him to scream in anguish.

"AAAARGH!"

The man rolled off of Potter, his face blistering, red and raw. As Potter leapt to his feet and caught Quirrell by the arm, Snape heard Voldemort's high-pitched voice of fury.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

Snape suddenly felt the pain in his own head, and he knew for a brief moment what the boy must've been feeling. But Potter wouldn't let go, holding on as Quirrell struggled; then, abruptly, without warning, all went black.

Sensation in a Pensieve was indeed an aberration, one he'd never experienced before, Snape thought to himself as he once again became aware of his surroundings. He was sitting directly behind the boy, on his four-poster bed, the curtains drawn. The boy was leaning over a book, peering at an empty page. Snape realized that it must be some sort of diary. He watched as Potter dipped his quill in ink, then penned the words, _My name is Harry Potter_.

The words disappeared, then Snape was suddenly chilled when he saw the words appear. _Hello, Harry Potter, my name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

There was a swirling of dark shadows as the scene reformed, and Snape had no doubt at all where they'd end up. Dumbledore had given him the barest of descriptions. The reality of it, however, even though Snape knew the outcome, caused him to shrink back in terror. He felt the stone floor of the chamber shudder.

"Kill him." It was Voldemort's voice, in Parseltongue, and as this was Potter's memory, Snape could understand it.

He raced behind the boy as he ran, weaving wildly between the stone pillars, trying to avoid the beast and its thrashing head. When Potter tripped and fell to the ground, Snape had to restrain himself from reaching out to help him, even though he knew it would be useless. Potter was slammed against the wall by the basilisk's tail, and for a moment, he lay there, stunned.

"Get up, get up," Snape murmured. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape spied a streak of scarlet, then gaped, watching as Fawkes blinded the beast in two neat dive-bomb volleys. As the serpent swayed, sightless and confused, Snape heard the boy cry out.

"Help me, help me! Someone—anyone—"

A flick of the beast's tail brought the Sorting Hat within reach, and Snape watched, dumbfounded, as the boy stuck the thing on his head and scrunched up his eyes. _Help me, help me. Please help me_, Snape could hear him saying over and over in his mind.

Suddenly, Potter was on his feet as he pulled the glittering sword from within the hat. Snape recognized it at once; it'd recently caused him a great deal of grief, in fact. Potter missed on his first two tries, but on the third, he drove the sword home, into the roof of the serpent's mouth. Snape's vision clouded for a moment, then he realized that some minutes had passed.

"So ends the famous Harry Potter," Voldemort chided. Snape knelt beside the boy, then looked up at the sound of the phoenix in the distance. "You'll be back with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry," Voldemort opined. Snape felt a fury rise within him, but he was powerless to act…. But he had acted, hadn't he? He'd acted for years, and he could only hope, hope that now….

The phoenix spiraled down to sit on Harry's arm; Snape watched, with an undisguised affection for the creature, as the tears fell onto the boy's wound. As it healed, Snape watched the distress grow on Voldemort's face.

"Phoenix tears…I forgot…" Voldemort stated, almost dreamily.

What happened next occurred so fast that Snape jumped back from the central action. The phoenix had swooped up and then returned, dropping the diary into Harry's lap. Voldemort raised his wand, while Potter lunged for the basilisk fang, then stabbed it deep into the diary.

As Voldemort's high-pitched screams filled the Chamber, the scenario disappeared around them again

As the mist cleared, Snape thought to himself that that was twice that he'd heard the Dark Lord scream because of Potter, and the boy hadn't even reached thirteen yet….

They were in a crowded and noisy room, hunched down in a small space, staring through the lower branches of what Snape realized was a Christmas tree. There was a murmuring of voices from the other side of it. Snape recognized them at once: McGonagall, Flitwick, Fudge, Hagrid, and Madam Rosmerta. It was an intense conversation, of which Snape had trouble discerning the gist. He craned his neck to the side, and realized that he and Potter were hiding under a table in the Three Broomsticks. He listened as the occupants at the other table chronicled the sorry story of Black's supposed betrayal of the boy's parents, and was shocked, once again, to find that he could feel the emotion roiling off of Potter: grief, outrage, and yes, fear, as he heard the story of how the couple had been betrayed by their Secret-Keeper.

Snape pulled back as far as he could in the small space; Potter was trembling, biting his lower lip, his eyes filled with tears as he listened.

With a whirl, they were gone again, and this time, as the scene reformed, Snape stood at Harry's shoulder as the boy raised his wand.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he cried out, and they both watched as the stag leapt out and soared across the lake to where Black and Potter lay, as if lifeless. Black shapes spiraled upward, and it was only then that Snape spotted the Dementors. But how….his mind boggled. Here was Potter…and _there_ was Potter. He watched, his mouth hanging open as the Patronus returned to the shore where they were standing. It pawed at the ground, until Potter whispered a single word.

"Prongs." As the boy reached out, the silvery creature vanished. Snape was astounded, his mind racing as he thought. There was only one way this could've happened. A Time-Turner. Dumbledore, he thought, had even more to explain, when Snape finally got his hands on the old man. His mind muddled, Snape barely registered that he was once more in a freefall.

Potter was crouched behind a headstone in a cemetery, the moon streaming down to highlight the terror on his face. Snape moved to stand behind him, just before the boy leapt out into the open and cried, _Expelliarmus!_"

An answering cry of "_Avada Kedavra_" was howled from a short distance away. The twin beams from the wands met at the apex of an arc of light. Snape watched, mesmerized, as both Potter and Voldemort were lifted into the air. The light shattered into a thousand shards and covered the two duelers with a canopy of pulsing rays.

The two wizards shook with the effort of sustaining the connection, then Voldemort's wand screamed as the effects of Priori Incantatem spilled out the victims of the evil wizard's perfidy: Diggory, an old man, a younger woman, all of them whispering words of encouragement to the boy struggling to hold onto his wand.

Even though Snape knew what was coming, his heart lurched at the sight of Lily and James Potter. He moved closer to hear what they would say, but only caught the sound of James' voice urging, "Do it now, be ready to run…do it now…."

Potter broke the connection with an upward swing of his wand, then set off, zigzagging between the headstones, with Snape close behind him. The boy managed to shoot off a curse, then dove to grab hold of the dead Diggory's arm. With an "_Accio!_" directed at the Triwizard Cup, the moment the boy caught it, the world fell into darkness.

Snape was dazed for a moment, remembering what had next transpired in his own life. Setting off down a road that he'd known was inevitable, but nonetheless, he'd held out a hope…but alas, hope had disappointed, as usual.

He shook his head, then looked up. They were in a pitch-dark alley of some sort, and it was cold, bone-chilling cold. Snape shivered as he watched Potter raise his wand, and shout, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" yet again. The familiar stag leapt out and galloped toward the far end of the alley, where a Dementor was bent over the figure of the fat Muggle boy whom Snape recognized from the play park. He raced alongside Potter as he ran to his cousin.

"GET IT!" Potter screamed, and the stag veered back in their direction, catching the hideous form with its antlers and tossing it into nothingness. The stars and moon came from out of nowhere, as Potter bent over the whimpering, huddled figure on the ground. Snape considered the pair, thinking idly to himself that had he been in Potter's place, he just might've let the Dementor have him. As the boy stood, he looked over his shoulder and…the scene faded once again.

Snape took a step closer to the group of boys gathered in a Gryffindor dormitory. There seemed to be some sort of fracas in progress, Potter and a red-faced boy, with their noses just inches apart as they shouted at each other.

"That's before she started believing every word the stinking _Daily Prophet_ writes about me!" Potter yelled.

The other boy, Finnegan, Snape suddenly remembered, bristled as he cried, "You know what? He's right. I don't want to share a dormitory with him anymore, he's a madman!"

The Weasley boy broke in. "That's out of order, Seamus," he protested.

"Out of order, am I? You believe all the rubbish he's come out with about You Know Who?"

The conversation continued, unabated and heated, between Finnegan and Weasley. Snape was watching Potter, though, losing track of the words. The boy's face was white and drawn, and he trembled as he listened to his dorm mates argue over his sanity. Snape felt an uncharacteristic flash of pity. The boy'd experienced the unimaginable, witnessed the resurrection of the man who'd killed his parents and nearly himself, and now, his own friends had turned against him. It must've been…difficult, Snape conceded, suddenly aware that he'd never considered what Potter must've suffered due to the staunch and widespread refusal to believe, the tacit willingness to be deceived, if only because the alternative was too horrific a possibility.

He was still staring at Potter's face when the picture fragmented, just as Snape had begun to wonder which of all the myriad events of the boy's fifth year would be next. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to find them in one of Umbridge's detentions, or at a gathering of the school's vigilante group; he fully expected to find them at the Ministry of Magic, but no. Where they next came to rest, Snape found himself completely puzzled.

They were in a deserted classroom, the only light from a single wall sconce. Potter was leaning against a desk, and hovering by the window was the Gryffindor house ghost.

"So…he can come back, right?" Potter asked him, his voice strangely strained.

Nearly Headless Nick looked away from the window. "He won't come back," he said in a sad, mournful voice.

"Who?" Potter asked him.

"Sirius Black," the ghost replied.

"But you did." His voice was strident. And then it became clear to Snape. Potter had lost his godfather just days before. He'd no doubt hoped that he'd see him again, much as he could see the house ghost. As they talked, Snape watched it arrive on the boy's face: anguish renewed, then resignation.

"I'm sorry to not have been more help," Nick told the distraught boy before he faded through the wall. Potter stared after him, his face a mask of grief. Snape knew that he wasn't the first wizard to hope against hope that a loved one would return, although in an altered form. The boy buried his face in his hands and wept. Snape had no choice but to stand and keep a silent vigil beside him. For the first time in the whirlwind of memories, he felt uncomfortable, an intruder, as if he were viewing something intensely private and personal that he had no right to see.

As the scene reformed, Snape's eyes had to adjust to the low light. He sighed. They were back on the four-poster bed again, Potter propped up against the pillows, the heavy curtains drawn tightly to ensure privacy. The boy was using a _Lumos_ against the dark of night to illuminate the book resting on his knees. Snape leant in to read, then sat back suddenly as he identified the volume, and Potter began to speak aloud.

"I don't care what she says. You're a genius, y'know," the boy murmured as he turned a page, then brought the book up close to his face to better read the writing in a margin. "Bloody brilliant, you are, or _were_. Are you still alive? How'd you come up with this stuff?" Snape watched, bemused, as Potter avidly read the next four or five pages. "Who _are_ you? I'd really like to meet you…I think." He laid the book in his lap, then turned to the back cover. Tracing a finger over the inscription at the bottom of the book, Potter whispered, "The Half-Blood Prince, eh? I wonder…did you know my mum? Slughorn says she was super at Potions, so maybe you did. Nice thought, that."

Snape sat, his eyes wide, as Potter continued to leaf through the book. His mind reeled. Of course, he'd known that the boy had the book. But my god, what a question. He was glad now, that he'd not succeeded in forcing Potter to surrender it. He'd obviously made steady improvement with Potions in his sixth year, and the adventures of his seventh year, Snape knew, would have made every bit of knowledge the boy possessed valuable. The darkness deepened, and Snape closed his eyes, until the sound of Dumbledore's voice prompted him to open them again.

"Once and for all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?"

"Couldn't—?"

"Do I have it?"

"But—"

"_Your word, Harry_."

"I—all right, but—"

Snape had no idea of what he was watching, but what followed made him fall to his knees: the headmaster's rapid descent into madness, and the boy beside him, coaxing him to drink, returning again and again to a basin to refill a crystal goblet. Potter was ashen and trembling, but seemed determined to keep his word, despite the protests and pleading of the man writhing on the ground, his agony increasing with each goblet-full.

"We're nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink this…." Potter was holding Dumbledore by the shoulders as the old man obediently drank. When the boy stood to refill the goblet once more, Snape looked around. They were in a cavern of some sort, and water surrounded them on the small isle where they were situated. He was jolted from his inspection by Dumbledore's screams.

"I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!

Snape watched in horror as Potter, white-faced, knelt beside him. "Drink this, Professor. Drink this."

After obeying, Dumbledore shrieked again, "KILL ME!" Potter was shaking uncontrollably, barely able to hold the cup as he stepped to the stone basin again. Then the scene bled away and where they ended up made Snape take a deep, shuddering breath.

He was under the damned Invisibility Cloak again, the scene before them painted in sepia hues by its magical fabric, watching as his memory self walked forward to stand in front of the wizened old wizard. The agony in his dreamlike self was apparent, his conflict almost palpable, as he struggled with the action he'd agreed to undertake.

"Severus…please…" It wasn't a request, not a plea for mercy; it was a gentle reminder of an agreement, one that Snape had had to push himself to his limits to honor.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" As the green jet of light struck its target, he felt the body beside him come to life, as if it had been released from what was holding it immobile. Potter brought his hand his mouth, his eyes filled with horror and shock, then seemed to re-gather his senses as he threw the cloak off and lifted his wand. Snape was shaken for a moment, as he followed behind, realizing that he and Potter had shared something bizarre: both of them had made promises to Albus Dumbledore that had been difficult to keep, when the time had come.

The scene melted again, then reconfigured. Snape was flying alongside Potter, who was holding on as if for dear life to some sort of mechanical contraption as it plummeted towards the ground. Potter's wand arm swung around, and a bolt of white lightning shot from his wand into the mist.

"Noooo!" Snape heard Voldemort scream from close by, then saw the red eyes blazing at them through the brume. "Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!" he cried out again. Then as suddenly as he'd appeared, the Dark Lord was gone, but Snape and Potter were still hurtling towards the earth. Snape shut his eyes and prepared for the imminent impact, but then the acceleration and fog were instantly gone.

Potter was sitting in the opening of a battered old tent, his wand resting in his lap, as he stared out into the darkness of the forest at night. Snape looked around them, and couldn't tell where they were, but could sense the powerful wards and charms protecting them. He'd just turned back to the tent, when their surroundings changed once again.

Potter was stretched out on the lower of two bunks, drenched in sweat, his skin a sickly, pasty white. He'd come up on his elbows to stare at the girl beside him.

"_Where's my wand?_"

Reluctantly, Granger reached down beside her, then held it out to him. Potter stared at the broken thing, then took it almost reverently, cradling the nearly severed pieces, as his eyes seemed to fill with panic and fear.

"Mend it, please." When the girl shook her head, he insisted, "Please, Hermione, try!"

Snape watched, saddened, as it became evident that the wand could not be repaired. His mind wandered as the two of them whispered. This had to have been a huge loss for the boy, who must've believed that a great part of his potential to defeat the Dark Lord would lie in the power of his wand itself. Potter took the girl's wand, leaving her tearful, as he took up his post at the doorway for the nighttime watch. Snape realized then that this was how the three of them had lived for almost a year: sleeping in a cold damp tent, eating only god knew what, constantly in fear of discovery. It had to have been demoralizing and exhausting, never knowing what lay ahead on whatever quest it was that Dumbledore had sent them.

The scene shifting seemed to accelerate, and Snape had barely enough time to process one, when they flew into another. The great chandelier of Malfoy Manor came crashing down, and amidst the confusion of screams, cracking crystal and billowing dust, Snape watched as Potter jumped over an armchair and wrested a handful of wands from a startled Draco….

Potter was digging in the darkness, a grave, it appeared to be. There were people standing around the hole as he dug, and Snape saw the still form of a house-elf lying at the edge of the grave, covered by Potter's jacket….

They were in a bedroom, Snape sitting beside Potter and his two friends as they stared across at the emaciated, yellowed face of Ollivander.

"The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. Potter," he rasped. "He is determined to possess it, because he believes it will make him truly invulnerable." Snape wondered over this for a moment as the conversation continued, remembering the myth of the Elder Wand, and the Dark Lord's last words to him in the Shrieking Shack.

Then he smiled a rueful smile. The last few moments of his life suddenly made perfect sense. Pity, he thought, that the Dark Lord hadn't known the finer details of what had transpired on the Astronomy Tower, who had actually disarmed Albus Dumbledore….

Sensing another shift in scenery, Snape looked up to find himself just behind Potter's shoulder as he spied through the slats of an old crate. It was certainly an odd thing, witnessing one's own death, he thought, strangely detached. He noticed Potter stiffen as his memory self screamed, then watched as the enchanted cage moved away and his body slumped to the floor with a thud.

Potter and his friends stealthily entered the room, Snape alongside them, impassively watching as the man on the floor grabbed at the wound in his throat, blood pooling around him like a shadow moving across the moon. He watched as the silvery memories were captured in a flask, then heard himself say, "Look…at…me…"

The world seemed to tilt oddly, as Snape felt he was in two places at exactly the same time, looking down as Potter bent over him, but looking up too, as the cold seeped through him and the green of the eyes gave him one last streak of warmth. Snape wearily closed his eyes, at the very same instant as the black ones of the memory became blank and lifeless.

When he opened them once more, it was to the boy's green eyes again. Potter lay on the carpet of the headmaster's office, his face turned to the side. For a moment, Snape feared he'd been stunned or immobilized, but then the boy slowly sat up, his face a haunted mask of fear and disbelief.

Snape followed Potter as he made his way through the castle, pausing with him as the two of them took in the scene in the Great Hall from beneath the Invisibility Cloak. He glanced curiously at Potter's face as they gained the grounds; the fear was gone, replaced by an even more frightening expression that Snape had never once seen on the boy's face: steely determination melded with a grim resignation. His respect for Potter, already nascent and heightened by his travels thus far, grew as he heard him instruct Longbottom about the importance of doing in Nagini. Here he was, marching off to certain death, and he still had his wits about him.

At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they were besieged by Dementors, and for the first time since they'd started out, he saw Potter falter. Trembling, he withdrew an object from within his cloak, then cradled it in his hands in front of his face. Snape was surprised to see that it was a Golden Snitch.

"I am about to die." Snape could barely make out the words, then gaped when the tiny ball opened, to display a familiar black stone in the light of the whispered, "_Lumos_."

They walked deeper into the forest, and Snape understood that something about the stone had summoned their ethereal companions. James, Lily, Black and Lupin walked alongside them, murmuring words of encouragement when the boy's courage seemed on the verge of flagging.

"You'll stay with me?" Potter asked them.

"Until the very end," his father reassured him.

Deeper and deeper into the forest they trudged, and Snape understood that it was the presence of Potter's champions that ensured that he was unaffected by the Dementors. On they went, eventually following Dolohov and Yaxley. Snape was quite close to Potter, still beneath the Cloak; from time to time he glanced at the boy's face, which was now a picture of peace and acceptance. Snape marveled again, wondering what else had transpired in the past year, to bring Potter to the point where he'd lay down his life for the slaughter.

He realized in a flash that Dumbledore had been right all along about Potter, and even though he himself was dead and far past the time for it, Snape was humbled.

Suddenly, the mist swirled around them. Snape could hear voices, the crunching of twigs underfoot, then the scene became crystal clear, as they stood on one side of a large crackling fire. The Dark Lord stood on the other, rolling the infamous wand between his slender fingers.

This was the moment, then. Snape fought a wild and momentary urge to step away from Potter, to distance himself from what he knew was about to occur. But then he stopped.

He thought of the small, whimpering boy in the cupboard; he remembered how bravely the twelve-year-old had faced a snake much larger than Nagini; he recalled Potter protecting his Muggle tormentor; he envisioned the boy standing in a grave, paying homage to a house-elf; then finally, he imagined, although he'd not actually seen the memory, what Potter must've felt as he viewed Snape's own memories, and learnt that his whole life had been for this—to finally yield himself up so that evil could be irrevocably cast into the netherworld, never to return. Squaring his shoulders, Snape drew himself up to his full height, then stood shoulder to shoulder with Potter, ready to face oblivion.

"I was…it seems…mistaken," Voldemort opined.

"You weren't." Potter called out, then threw off the Cloak, and Snape wondered at his sudden sensation of feeling exposed. There was a din in the clearing as those in attendance called out, screamed, hooted and hollered.

But then the sound faded away, and Snape understood that this was Potter's memory. There was no distraction, no last minute wavering, no flinching of his hand towards his robes for his wand. Just a fearless, young warrior, standing proudly, shoulders thrown back, his head held high as he met the eyes of his executioner.

"Harry Potter….the Boy Who Lived," Voldemort said the epithet. A tilt of his head to the side, the slow motion of his wand upward. Snape didn't even hear the curse, but blinked his eyes at the flash of green light….

***

It took longer for the mist to dissipate this time. Snape found himself facing the train as it idled there in Hogsmeade station, great billows of steam eddying up from its stack. As before, there wasn't another soul in sight. But when Snape felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle, he knew. He just _knew_.

He turned slowly, his eyes lowered, then lifted them to meet the eyes of Harry Potter. He wondered idly if this were yet another memory, but when he saw the stone Pensieve on the platform between them, he guessed that this was the real thing this time. Well, as real as it could be, given the fact that they were both dead.

Potter was watching him, his eyes bright and surprised, his mouth hanging slightly open. As Snape gave him a curt nod, the boy took a step forward, then stopped as he seemed to notice the Pensieve for the first time.

"Oh," he said, glancing from the basin to Snape. "Professor Snape, I…" he paused, chewing at his lower lip, then continued, "Are you all right?"

Snape snorted. "As right as a dead person can be, I suppose." Snape was studying the boy, who then shook his head in wonder.

"No, I meant, I didn't expect to see…" Potter shook his head. "No, what I meant was…" He stopped again, gave Snape a winsome, crooked smile, then added, "Your memories…thank you," he finished simply, staring without embarrassment at Snape's neck, which caused him to reflexively bring up a hand to the place where the marks would've been. He'd checked earlier, when he'd first awakened, and knew there was no trace of them.

"You're welcome," Snape told him soberly, then added, "Yours were most instructive as well."

Potter brought up a hand and was rubbing his forehead where his scar should've been and seemed preoccupied for a moment, then he focused on Snape again and frowned.

"My memories?" He looked down at the Pensieve, then up at Snape, the question in his eyes.

Snape nodded. "Yes, yours."

"But how?" Potter asked, perplexed. "I didn't put any…."

"I reckon not," Snape agreed, stepping closer to the Pensieve so that there was only a foot between them. "But someone else…managed to." Snape had no idea how he'd done it, but he wasn't in the least bit surprised. "I suppose Albus would be the one to ask."

Potter's eyes were wide. "What did you see? I can't imagine why he would've…."

"I saw enough so that I understand a great deal about you," Snape said softly, watching as Potter struggled to process this.

When he met Snape's eyes again, he murmured, "Same here, Professor. I understand too." He paused, searching Snape's face, then confided, "I'd've made a mess of things without what you showed me." His face clouded slightly. "As it is now…."

Snape shrugged. "We've done what we could, both of us, Potter. And now, here we are."

The boy's face cleared when he smiled. "Yes, here we are."

"Dead." Snape said emphatically, more for Potter's sake than his own. He suspected that the boy hadn't entirely accepted that fact. He was alarmed when Potter laughed out loud.

"Right, we are. Well, in a way." When Snape lifted an eyebrow, Potter gestured up the track, in the direction from which the train had come. "I'm not dead, Professor. I've just had a conversation with Dumbledore; he explained everything—about what happened and why—and I was just turning to go back, when…I ended up here. I think it's a detour, seeing you."

"Go back where?" Snape asked him, almost breathless. No, it couldn't be…it couldn't be…could it? But Potter confirmed this hope with his next words.

"Go back to the clearing; go back to Voldemort." Potter's eyes looked far older than his years, and his face softened with something Snape read as compassion. "I'm not dead, Snape. I have to go back. I have to go back and kill him. For good, this time." His voice became harder. "And this time I know what I have to do and how to do it. I'm going to kill him, Snape, I swear I am."

For a moment, Snape moved his mouth, but couldn't seem to form words in his mind, let alone articulate them. He felt a flood of warmth that spread from his heart to his head, leaving him slightly dizzy. Finally, he said thickly, "Yes, I believe you will."

Potter stepped around the basin to stand beside him, as they both heard the sound of the Express as its engines began to throttle upward. "I couldn't have done it without you, Professor. You and Dumbledore."

Snape glanced over his shoulder and saw that the Express was beginning to inch forward. He looked back and for the first time in his life, genuinely smiled at the boy. "Are you supposed to be on that? If you are, you'd best make your move."

Potter looked at the sluggishly moving train, then back to Snape. He smiled shyly. "Yeah, I think that'll get me back to King's Cross, one way or another." When Snape made a shooing motion with his hand, Potter backed away toward the train, then turned on heel and strode toward the car steps.

"Potter!" Snape called out sharply.

The boy turned, just about to grab on to the railing. "Sir?"

Snape tried to affect a sneer, but the best he could come up with, given the circumstances, was a stern, "Did you really fly a dragon out of Gringotts?"

Potter's face split into a boyish grin. "We did, sir!"

Snape shook his head, then laughed out loud. "Excellent."

Then in a blur of motion, Potter was back at his side, and before Snape could protect himself, the boy had flung his arms around him, and hugged him fiercely. Shocked beyond measure, Snape took a moment to respond, then slowly brought up both of his arms and awkwardly encircled the thin back, patting him reassuringly.

"You're the bravest man I've ever known," Potter mumbled next to Snape's ear.

"Second to you, Potter," Snape murmured back, then as he pushed the boy away, he met his eyes. "Second to you."

Potter flashed him a smile of pure joy, then turned and pursued the train which was gathering speed. Snape watched as he easily jumped to the steps and caught the handrail. Potter hung slightly off the side, twisting to call out as the mist started to shroud the huffing engine.

"Professor! Tell my parents I love them!" Snape took several steps toward the train to keep the boy in view, then he was gone, but he heard Potter's last words, "I'll see you, Professor! Try to be happy…you deserve it…" There was something else, but Snape couldn't catch his final words.

Snape was soon engulfed by the mist again, and this time he closed his eyes, somehow sensing that what was to come would be his final destination. He waited, until the air seemed crisper; his body now seemed to have a weight of its own; he could feel the sun on his face; strangest of all, he could've sworn that his heart was beating once again.

He opened his eyes to find himself on the crest of a hill, standing above what seemed to be a meadowland. There were trees, the backdrop of birdsong, and down below, not too far away, was the dip of a small valley, where there were tents festooned with brightly colored flags flapping in the wind. All around, there were people milling about, and the low hum of their mingled conversation sounded festive and joyous.

Then it appeared someone had spotted Snape where he stood, as a voice cried out, "There he is!" A cry of excitement rose up out of the valley as the men, women and children swooped to the bottom of the hill, some of them pointing in his direction.

A roar rose from the crowd, once they'd all gathered there, and Snape slowly understood that it was for him that they were calling, shouting out greetings, waving in welcome, he realized, slightly dazed.

His confusion cleared, however, when he saw the woman forcing her way to the front of the gathering. They parted for her, then she was through, and was bounding up the hillside, lifting the skirts of her robes with one hand, waving with the other as she climbed. "Severus! Severus!" she cried, over and over, as she worked her way up, her long red hair blowing in the gentle breeze.

Snape watched her for moment, then with a smile, he started down the hillside, undoing the buttons of his collar as he went.

 

FIN


End file.
